without the salt on top. What's the point?
Not so much awkward, just sad.
Friday, April 22, 2011
so fresh, so clean
Today I'd like to tell you about an awkward experience that is probably unique to me. I was getting ready to take the train home yesterday when it occurred to me that I would not survive five days in my house without coffee creamer. I feared that my family would have none, or worse--sugar free ("I'll stay dehydrated"). We had a good half-bottle of Vanilla Nut, a flavor Sarah and I picked to be adventurous, in our mini fridge, so I closed it up tight and threw it--no, placed it gently--in my tote.
I also packed several copies of the Driftwood, the literary magazine I work for (holla if you want one! Although you might not after reading this...) because I thought some kind relatives and church folk might be interested. So we have in one bag: five new books and a bottle of sticky milk-like liquid. If you're not a literature aficionado, this is what we call foreshadowing.
The train ride went well; the highlight was two teenagers standing on the platform flipping us off (with smiles!) as we departed. When we got to LA, I organized my three small bags and hobbled awkwardly out of the train. As I was hurrying through the endless tunnel of Union Station, I got kind of stuck behind a little girl in a princess outfit. That's the kind of person who you are actually pleased to be delayed by. As I was admiring her Cinderella rolly-backpack, her dad started looking at me. I thought maybe I was being too creeperish by staring at his kid, so I looked away. Then he said something to me that I couldn't quite hear, so I just kind of smiled at him and tried to keep walking.
"You're leaking," he repeated. This could be a problem for many reasons. But I figured it out quickly enough when I turned around and saw the spotty white trail going all the way back to my platform. I hadn't even noticed it dripping all the way down my thigh onto my pretty little combat boots. On the inside, I did one of those slow motion "Noooooo!"'s, but in real life I just thanked the man and snuck off to a corner to adjust my bags. As I was walking away, some station personnel came hurrying over, as if they sensed in their bones that there was a spill. I tried to be invisible, but somehow they saw me anyway. "I'm so sorry," I said with a shrug/grimace, and they just glared and walked faster.
Once I had closed the traitor lid, I composed myself and tried to walk through the station as if nothing was wrong. But every pair of eyes I met seemed to hold an accusation. They knew. They just knew. Like I was wearing the scarlet letter of train station sin.
I finally made it out to meet my mom in the parking lot and was able to pause and assess the damage: five new books thoroughly soaked in sticky milk-like liquid. My mother, ever the resourceful one, pulled a child's sock out of her purse to help me clean them. It sort of worked, too, but the books still smelled delicious.
And that is the story of how I made a fool of myself yesterday. Don't worry, we still have four more days of break and endless potential for awkwardness. Hope you enjoy your vanilla nut Driftwoods.
I also packed several copies of the Driftwood, the literary magazine I work for (holla if you want one! Although you might not after reading this...) because I thought some kind relatives and church folk might be interested. So we have in one bag: five new books and a bottle of sticky milk-like liquid. If you're not a literature aficionado, this is what we call foreshadowing.
The train ride went well; the highlight was two teenagers standing on the platform flipping us off (with smiles!) as we departed. When we got to LA, I organized my three small bags and hobbled awkwardly out of the train. As I was hurrying through the endless tunnel of Union Station, I got kind of stuck behind a little girl in a princess outfit. That's the kind of person who you are actually pleased to be delayed by. As I was admiring her Cinderella rolly-backpack, her dad started looking at me. I thought maybe I was being too creeperish by staring at his kid, so I looked away. Then he said something to me that I couldn't quite hear, so I just kind of smiled at him and tried to keep walking.
"You're leaking," he repeated. This could be a problem for many reasons. But I figured it out quickly enough when I turned around and saw the spotty white trail going all the way back to my platform. I hadn't even noticed it dripping all the way down my thigh onto my pretty little combat boots. On the inside, I did one of those slow motion "Noooooo!"'s, but in real life I just thanked the man and snuck off to a corner to adjust my bags. As I was walking away, some station personnel came hurrying over, as if they sensed in their bones that there was a spill. I tried to be invisible, but somehow they saw me anyway. "I'm so sorry," I said with a shrug/grimace, and they just glared and walked faster.
Once I had closed the traitor lid, I composed myself and tried to walk through the station as if nothing was wrong. But every pair of eyes I met seemed to hold an accusation. They knew. They just knew. Like I was wearing the scarlet letter of train station sin.
I finally made it out to meet my mom in the parking lot and was able to pause and assess the damage: five new books thoroughly soaked in sticky milk-like liquid. My mother, ever the resourceful one, pulled a child's sock out of her purse to help me clean them. It sort of worked, too, but the books still smelled delicious.
And that is the story of how I made a fool of myself yesterday. Don't worry, we still have four more days of break and endless potential for awkwardness. Hope you enjoy your vanilla nut Driftwoods.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
feeling like a 3rd-grader
when you can't tear out your notebook paper along the perforated line.
Can I get an amen?
Can I get an amen?
Monday, April 18, 2011
"never put much stock in suavity"
So I'm back from the weekend with a fresh-baked batch of social dilemmas.
In this bloglet, I'd like to focus on that moment when you're the only one in a crowded room making any form of noise. I don't know how many times I have been the one idiot who starts clapping at the end of a worship song while everyone else is bowing their heads in prayer. Or that tool in the theater who just needs to have her M&Ms during the crucial plot twist scene (What? It's not like you need to hear whether the top falls...)
But in very serious settings, I tend to find a way to make a fool of myself. Murphy's Law or whatever. And I'm betting that I'm not the only one.
Inspiration credit: Michael Clark for ever so gracefully opening his canister of mints in the middle of an awards ceremony.
In this bloglet, I'd like to focus on that moment when you're the only one in a crowded room making any form of noise. I don't know how many times I have been the one idiot who starts clapping at the end of a worship song while everyone else is bowing their heads in prayer. Or that tool in the theater who just needs to have her M&Ms during the crucial plot twist scene (What? It's not like you need to hear whether the top falls...)
But in very serious settings, I tend to find a way to make a fool of myself. Murphy's Law or whatever. And I'm betting that I'm not the only one.
Inspiration credit: Michael Clark for ever so gracefully opening his canister of mints in the middle of an awards ceremony.
Friday, April 15, 2011
the friend fadeout
So I was wracking through my awkward archives, and I figured this was one we've all executed or been subject to throughout our lives: the friend fadeout.
It's a subtle thing, and she who does it right will have you questioning your own sanity. It begins like this: you have a class with someone and you strike up a conversation. Something simple, like how 'bout those irregular verbs? and you're in. You've entered into the elusive class-friend relationship.
Now throughout the semester you have an ally every time the teacher says those fated words, "You're going to be working in groups." And you have someone to giggle with every time the prof says something that everyone knows merits a "that's what she said," but no one is brave enough to say it. You're living the dream.
But alas, such things are not meant to be. You both knew you were star-crossed from the beginning-- no common friends, no common living area, shoot, probably not even another class together to give your friendship some kind of a chance. It's time for the friend fadeout. Now, the extremity of the fade varies based on the dispositions of the participants, the length of the relationship, and maybe the weather. But usually the timeline goes something like this:
Semester 1- You're still in the honeymoon stage. Every time you see your class-friend, you smile, wave enthusiastically, and say hello by name (this is key). You may quote class inside jokes or say that you "really should get together soon." And maybe there is some small part of you that believes this.
Semester 2- You still see each other fairly often around campus, but Class-Friend seems more like Campus-Acquaintance-At-Best. You get a smile, maybe a wave, but never a conversation.
Semester 3- You've pretty much reverted to your pre-class stage-- seeing this person on Caf Lane but having no interaction with him or her and no illusions about your closeness. From Semester 3 on, you will treat each other like strangers. You may try to rekindle the small spark you had in Semester 2, but notice the determination with which this person ignores you. It's over.
But hey, not to worry. You had a good run. And don't forget there're always others out there just waiting to become your next awkward social experience.
xoxo,
Awkward Gurl (I accidentally typed that 'u,' but I think I like it)
It's a subtle thing, and she who does it right will have you questioning your own sanity. It begins like this: you have a class with someone and you strike up a conversation. Something simple, like how 'bout those irregular verbs? and you're in. You've entered into the elusive class-friend relationship.
Now throughout the semester you have an ally every time the teacher says those fated words, "You're going to be working in groups." And you have someone to giggle with every time the prof says something that everyone knows merits a "that's what she said," but no one is brave enough to say it. You're living the dream.
But alas, such things are not meant to be. You both knew you were star-crossed from the beginning-- no common friends, no common living area, shoot, probably not even another class together to give your friendship some kind of a chance. It's time for the friend fadeout. Now, the extremity of the fade varies based on the dispositions of the participants, the length of the relationship, and maybe the weather. But usually the timeline goes something like this:
Semester 1- You're still in the honeymoon stage. Every time you see your class-friend, you smile, wave enthusiastically, and say hello by name (this is key). You may quote class inside jokes or say that you "really should get together soon." And maybe there is some small part of you that believes this.
Semester 2- You still see each other fairly often around campus, but Class-Friend seems more like Campus-Acquaintance-At-Best. You get a smile, maybe a wave, but never a conversation.
Semester 3- You've pretty much reverted to your pre-class stage-- seeing this person on Caf Lane but having no interaction with him or her and no illusions about your closeness. From Semester 3 on, you will treat each other like strangers. You may try to rekindle the small spark you had in Semester 2, but notice the determination with which this person ignores you. It's over.
But hey, not to worry. You had a good run. And don't forget there're always others out there just waiting to become your next awkward social experience.
xoxo,
Awkward Gurl (I accidentally typed that 'u,' but I think I like it)
Thursday, April 14, 2011
this could get akward
When you are sitting in class, taking notes ever so diligently, and you come across a word that you're not sure how to spell. i.e. genealogy. There are several options in such a crisis:
- Suddenly switch to a much smaller, sloppier, more intellectual font.
- Be ambiguous with your letters. Make the tail of the 'a' so small, or the 'o' so lopsided, that it could go both ways. (Yeah).
- My personal favorite: Choose an opportune moment to lay your pen down as nonchalantly as possible over the offending word. Works every time.
Inspiration credit: Miguel Covarrubias for being the first to admit he does this too.
- Suddenly switch to a much smaller, sloppier, more intellectual font.
- Be ambiguous with your letters. Make the tail of the 'a' so small, or the 'o' so lopsided, that it could go both ways. (Yeah).
- My personal favorite: Choose an opportune moment to lay your pen down as nonchalantly as possible over the offending word. Works every time.
Inspiration credit: Miguel Covarrubias for being the first to admit he does this too.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
signature walking moves
1. Pretending you're yawning to hide the fact that you're out of breath from walking up Nease or Young Hill
2. The who-has-the-right-of-way-at-the-crosswalk dance
3. "Pulling out your cell phone to avoid people that you only kind of know" - Sarah Kounter
2. The who-has-the-right-of-way-at-the-crosswalk dance
3. "Pulling out your cell phone to avoid people that you only kind of know" - Sarah Kounter
the [awkward] introduction
I was (as usual) running about three minutes late to a philosophy class, and in no particular hurry, when I was struck by divine inspiration.
A fellow Loman, who will remain nameless, was walking about twenty feet behind me. Then ten. Then two and a half. You know where I'm going with this...
This guy was a pro. He needed to pass, to assert, to give me the finger of foot traffic, but he did it like a true artist. Once he got within passing distance, he veered left. Slowly, steadily, politely, he created a space. A space that said, "I'm just taking a little stroll. Oh, are you the sorry loser moving at the speed of a '90s DSL modem? Didn't even see you there!" And he made his move.
As he paralleled me for those dragged out three seconds, it dawned on me: this is awkward.
I continued my walk and endured the strange mix of heart twisties and indigestion that make up the awkward feeling as I watched him escape. And I was all alone.
Well, that's about to change. My friends and I have long been connoisseurs of uncomfortable social situations, and it is high time that these little retarded cousins of daily life be thrown into the forgiving arms of the Internet.
Stay tuned for more of the plethorawkward of college life.
A fellow Loman, who will remain nameless, was walking about twenty feet behind me. Then ten. Then two and a half. You know where I'm going with this...
This guy was a pro. He needed to pass, to assert, to give me the finger of foot traffic, but he did it like a true artist. Once he got within passing distance, he veered left. Slowly, steadily, politely, he created a space. A space that said, "I'm just taking a little stroll. Oh, are you the sorry loser moving at the speed of a '90s DSL modem? Didn't even see you there!" And he made his move.
As he paralleled me for those dragged out three seconds, it dawned on me: this is awkward.
I continued my walk and endured the strange mix of heart twisties and indigestion that make up the awkward feeling as I watched him escape. And I was all alone.
Well, that's about to change. My friends and I have long been connoisseurs of uncomfortable social situations, and it is high time that these little retarded cousins of daily life be thrown into the forgiving arms of the Internet.
Stay tuned for more of the plethorawkward of college life.
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